This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘You can wear your goray clothes,’ added Gulfashan.

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ replied Rukhsana.

  ‘O-ho,’ whispered Gulfashan. ‘How long did you think Bilal would keep the house for you? It was expensive. He was always going to think of his own pocket.’

  Rukhsana didn’t feel this assessment was fair, but didn’t contradict it.

  ‘Will you be okay?’ asked Bilal, looking, for the first time in a long time, like a man in command of both his feelings and situation. Aside from the residue of guilt he clearly felt.

  She gave him a wavering smile.

  He’d been wrong not to tell Rukhsana before now, but then Gulfashan was right. It was never her home to keep. She couldn’t blame him for having priorities. She even wished that Sakeena could see him now, taking charge of the village and his life. He lurched forward because Shagufta had bumped into him while trying to save the tray of samosas from flying on to the floor.

  ‘No time to stand around, Bilal, beta,’ exclaimed Shagufta. ‘The samosas will get cold.’

  Before Rukhsana could say any more, everyone bundled into their coats, hats, scarves and gloves. Vaseem picked his daughter up by her coat and carried her out. His wife refused to be left behind this time, so toddled out with their other two children.

  ‘We’ll try not to be too long,’ said Mariam.

  Haaris hovered at the door. ‘Why don’t you come, Khala?’

  She smiled at him, putting her hand on his head. ‘You come back and we have another English lesson.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he exclaimed. ‘And now you’re going to live with us we can learn Chinese next.’

  Rukhsana looked up at Bilal and Mariam, who also caught her eye.

  ‘Let’s talk about it when we get back,’ said Bilal.

  ‘No, tell her now,’ said Haaris.

  Bilal and Mariam exchanged looks before Bilal said: ‘Khala, we feel …’

  Haaris cleared his throat.

  ‘Sorry, Haaris feels that the house wouldn’t be the same without you. He wants you to stay with us.’

  She looked at the three faces, Haaris barely suppressing a smile.

  ‘And you?’ she asked, looking at her nephew and his wife.

  Mariam put her arm around Haaris, smiling – but it wasn’t her usual forced smile, though it looked a little sad. ‘We feel exactly the same.’

  ‘We do,’ added Bilal. ‘I’m sorry for selling Ammi’s house. But you have a home. With us.’

  Rukhsana felt her eyes fill with tears. Joy sprawled in her chest. And the bitter sadness of life seemed to dissolve in that moment. She pulled Haaris in to give him a kiss – since her words were lodged in her throat – which he accepted without fuss.

  ‘Okay?’ asked Bilal, putting his arm around her.

  She nodded, replying in English: ‘Okay.’

  ‘Let’s do this then,’ he added, as Mariam pushed Haaris out of the door.

  Rukhsana closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She should’ve gone with them. She had the mind to now. It didn’t matter. She was wanted. When they returned she’d feed them zarda and hear all about it.

  It was cloudy outside, the drizzle hadn’t stopped since morning, but Rukhsana, in a burst of energy, put on her wellies, raincoat, scarf and gloves and went for a walk. The low clouds covered the hills and she had to squint to protect her eyes from the spitting rain. Out here she felt alive, and she would be able to feel this way every day from now on. She breathed in the cold, fresh air before deciding to return home. Rukhsana had just taken off her wellies when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Shelley,’ she said, opening the door.

  Shelley’s glasses had steamed up, her raincoat splattered with the misty rain.

  ‘The van’s gone. Saw you walking into the house.’

  ‘Come,’ said Rukhsana, opening the door for her.

  ‘I don’t want to be far behind them. I just …’

  Rukhsana looked at this odd Shelley, with her pinched features and words. Yet Rukhsana tried not to think of that because she knew there was a sadness in her, even if she’d been short with her during their walk, and hadn’t said a word to her when they were in the van, or when she had left. Rukhsana wished happiness for her – the kind that Rukhsana now felt.

  ‘I wanted to give you this.’ Shelley extended her hand, in which she was holding a gift bag.

  ‘For me?’ Rukhsana asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Shelley replied, nodding.

  Rukhsana stared at the floral printed bag until Shelley shook it a little, forcing Rukhsana to take it.

  ‘What it is?’ asked Rukhsana.

  ‘What is it,’ Shelley corrected.

  Rukhsana peeked into the bag.

  ‘A small gift,’ Shelley said. ‘Present?’

  ‘It is cold. Come in.’

  Shelley hesitated, then stepped into the warmth.

  ‘Because,’ continued Shelley. ‘Well, I know I can be taciturn. So …’

  Did she say tax return? Sakeena would mention this a lot and it always put her in a bad mood – maybe that was the reason for Shelley looking so sour. Rukhsana took out a rectangular-shaped object that had been wrapped in red tissue paper and a gold ribbon. How nicely these goray presented things. She undid the ribbon and peeled the sellotape, without ripping the tissue paper.

  It was a notebook.

  A bronze hard cover, with leaves imprinted on all four corners.

  ‘For your poems,’ said Shelley.

  She took the notebook from Rukhsana and opened the first page to show her.

  ‘It’s a note. From me.’

  ‘What it says?’ asked Rukhsana, embarrassed all over again at her lack of education.

  ‘“So you can write the words that have sometimes failed us both”,’ said Shelley. ‘“Love, your friend.”’

  Rukhsana felt tears come to her eyes again. She wasn’t sure what the message meant but she knew what your friend meant.

  ‘I’m sorry, I not buy you present.’

  Shelley laughed, staring at Rukhsana in mild surprise. ‘You did quite enough yesterday. And, well …’ Shelley took Rukhsana’s hand, gripping it before pulling her into a hug.

  ‘You …’ started Shelley.

  But she didn’t finish her sentence, only pulled Rukhsana in tighter before letting her go.

  ‘Anyway, I must be off.’

  ‘It must be like this?’ asked Rukhsana.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You not join Bilal?’

  Shelley straightened up. ‘It’s out of the question,’ she said. ‘I thought you understood.’

  Rukhsana nodded. How was she to explain to Shelley that just because she understood didn’t mean she didn’t hope.

  ‘We’ll walk. In the new year,’ said Shelley.

  Rukhsana held her notebook to her chest, feeling the lightness of still having her friend. And now also a home.

  ‘Yes.’

  Shelley left and Rukhsana went into the living room, sitting by the fire that would probably die now Bilal wasn’t there to keep it going, her notebook and pen in hand. Rukhsana hadn’t given much thought to New Year in the past. She and Sakeena would sit and watch the fireworks on television, but this time something new flickered inside her. She thanked Allah as she flipped over a fresh new page and began to write.

  Shelley got into the car, feeling satisfied. She had done something for another person, not out of duty, but because she was thankful to them and it made her feel rather … light. This was not in keeping with the task that lay ahead of her – she knew she should be feeling disgruntled but it occurred to her that being angry consumed an awful lot of energy, and wasn’t this feeling of lightness preferable? These thoughts swiftly disintegrated when she turned the corner and St Swithun’s came into view.

  A barrage of people in raincoats held banners and placards. Men and women in jeans and jubbas, hats and hijabs, people with cameras and video-cameras, taking pictures with their phones. The crowd’s hubbub spoiling t
he peaceful look of the church that stood, unassuming, under the winter sky. The drizzling, freezing rain had deterred no-one, the people making a splash of colour against the grey day. Shelley’s body convulsed, as if the grass being trampled on was her own skin and the church that was at stake, her own flesh. She slammed the car door and marched towards the crowd, spotting Mr Pankhurst, Copperthwaite, Guppy, Jenny and James with a large group of other villagers.

  ‘There you are,’ said Jenny, seeing Shelley approach. ‘We were waiting for you.’

  Sometimes Shelley wondered whether the village might fall apart without someone to give directives. She was as exasperated as a person who felt the satisfaction of still being needed could be.

  ‘Christians for Muslims,’ grunted Copperthwaite, shaking his head, glaring at the band of merry Christians (and non-Christians). ‘Bloody Londoners.’

  Shelley saw Bruce, looking as if he were burdened with the weight of the world. She still hadn’t spoken to Copperthwaite since his confession about the note and it was something she’d have to tick off her list sooner rather than later. There was Bilal and his family, handing out food to the visitors. It wasn’t long before Bilal’s cousin, that great big man, was walking towards them with a tray.

  ‘Honour thy neighbours,’ he said, smiling.

  His familiarity was almost as offensive as the food he was offering underneath his stripy umbrella. James looked like he was about to reach out when Shelley said: ‘No. Thank you. We’re quite okay.’

  ‘You sure?’ he asked. ‘Freshly fried samosas don’t get much better than this,’ he added, waving the tray under Copperthwaite’s nose.

  Honestly. For all of Copperthwaite’s complaining, there was nothing like food to make him waver. His eyes shifted to Shelley.

  ‘He doesn’t do well with spices,’ she interjected.

  Bilal’s cousin took a bow as he walked backwards. Such smugness! Look at them! Then she caught Mariam’s eye. Well, she had been useful yesterday, hadn’t she? Shelley couldn’t help but nod a hello.

  ‘As if they own the place,’ said Jenny.

  James cleared his throat. ‘Well, we like democracy – isn’t this it?’

  Jenny shot him a look.

  ‘I see your wife’s adamant,’ said Shelley to Mr Pankhurst, looking over at Linda Pankhurst, who stood near Bilal in her multi-layered outfit and hot pink woollen hat – the bobble bouncing around.

  ‘We’ve had some heated discussions in our life together but nothing quite like this,’ said Mr Pankhurst. ‘But …’ It seemed to cost Mr Pankhurst to continue. ‘There comes a point when you just have to agree to disagree.’

  ‘I see.’

  Shelley wondered how two people with such opposing views could live under the same roof – worse still, have such opposing views and remain under that same roof. A sense of grave injustice swept over Shelley. What twist of fate meant that Mrs Pankhurst was rewarded with such a husband and she with Arthur? For a moment Shelley felt as if she were looking at herself from the outside, and a cacophony of infinite possibilities that never transpired cascaded before her. In another reality Mr Pankhurst could’ve been her husband. Or even Copperthwaite, despite his predilections – they might’ve got married and lived a comfortable life of friendship. Marriages were were based on worse things. What if Babbel’s End hadn’t been her home? If it was someone else standing here, trying to save St Swithun’s, and she was watching it all on television. It struck Shelley that the smallest of incidents could change the trajectory of our lives. Or not change it. What if Bilal, Mariam and Haaris had never moved to the village and because of that she had never met Khala? It wasn’t like Shelley to be sentimental. Indeed, that’s not what she was being, because Khala was no great friend of hers. Yet their walks had given her comfort, a safe space – free from the eyes and ears of others’ judgement – which had awakened something in her.

  ‘Shelley?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Shall we move closer. For effect?’ asked Jenny.

  Bilal had caught Shelley’s eye and for a moment neither of them looked away.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ said Copperthwaite, who was already leading the way with his placard in hand: Home is where the church is.

  The sign had seemed like a good idea at the time to Shelley – it was true, after all – but in the cold light of protest it felt rather too hostile.

  ‘We’re here because we believe in a united Britain. One where people of all faiths, or none, whatever culture, can co-exist, learn from one another,’ one man said into a reporter’s camera.

  ‘Listen, I never had a problem with Bill or his family,’ came Copperthwaite’s voice, now speaking to another reporter. ‘But this is a church, dammit,’ he continued.

  ‘Some might say it’s not your cross to bear,’ replied the reporter.

  Copperthwaite’s eyebrows collapsed into each other. ‘Are you being clever?’ He leaned into the reporter. ‘It’s a jolly fine day when a man’s told that his home, where he’s spent a lifetime, isn’t his cross to bear …’

  ‘Shelley …’

  Shelley turned around to see Richard holding his umbrella over her, even though she’d put up the hood of her raincoat. Before he could say any more, coming up behind him was Tom with his walking stick, dogs and Gerald. And Anne. She gave Shelley a small smile, and Shelley felt she had no choice but to return it.

  ‘That Copsy going off again?’ said Tom. He gave a smug smile as he took in the scene before him.

  ‘Let’s all be civil,’ said Richard.

  ‘Civil?’ exclaimed Tom. ‘To that old goat?’

  Upon hearing Tom’s voice, Copperthwaite turned around, his placard slipping in his hand a few inches. Shelley noticed his nostrils flare. Tom leaned forward, squinting.

  ‘Home is where the church is, eh?’ Tom laughed, pointing his stick at Copperthwaite’s placard. ‘Who came up with that genius line?’

  He had spoken loud enough for the leader of the Christians for Muslims Alliance to turn around.

  ‘Don’t remember you putting on your Sunday best for church too often, Cops.’

  Copperthwaite stuck out his neck, scrunching up his face. ‘Not like you gave a damn about anything but yourself. Your bush nearly killed my dog.’

  ‘Calm down, Copsy,’ said Shelley, glancing at Bruce, who’d edged forward.

  ‘He’s well within his right,’ said Jenny.

  ‘You’re keen on his rights,’ said Mariam, holding Haaris’s hand, who looked at Sam standing with his father, Harry. The boys were back to planning new pranks to play at the next village fair.

  ‘But forget other people’s right to voice their concerns,’ Mariam added.

  ‘It just wasn’t West Plimpington Gazette material, Mariam. You’re writing a book now, anyway. Worked out for you, didn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, excellent,’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘You’d do well to take some things seriously, Margaret,’ came Mr Pankhurst’s voice.

  ‘I take your overgrown moustache very seriously,’ she replied. ‘I find it terribly offensive.’

  ‘This isn’t helpful, Margaret, please,’ said Richard.

  ‘Listen, I think we should all take a moment,’ Bilal added.

  All eyes settled on him as everyone paused (bar several outsiders, who were recording the scene and taking pictures).

  ‘You,’ exclaimed Mr Pankhurst. ‘Why couldn’t you leave things be?’

  ‘No need to point at my bro like that, yeah?’ said Vaseem.

  ‘We don’t care for what outsiders think,’ said Copperthwaite. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  Bilal paused, taken aback. Shelley pursed her lips and put her hand on his arm.

  ‘I’ll explain to you later,’ she said, glancing at Bruce.

  ‘Oh, I’m too old to care,’ said Copperthwaite. ‘I wrote the note at the pub quiz.’

  Bruce’s face went red as Bilal met his gaze.

  Everyone started talki
ng over one another.

  Tom pointed his stick at Copperthwaite, Mariam argued with Jenny, James looked from side-to-side, Haaris and Sam now stood together, widening their unimpressed eyes at the grown-ups, Richard was trying to keep Margaret away from Mr Pankhurst, while Mrs Pankhurst was telling a journalist off for recording the whole scene.

  Shelley felt a nudge. ‘What?’

  She looked around to see Guppy. ‘There’s one of them men.’

  ‘What men?

  ‘The ones who disturbed my strimming at the church.’

  Guppy pointed to someone in his mid-thirties in thick-rimmed glasses, wearing a long navy coat and tapered trousers. He couldn’t be with the alliance, not if Guppy had recognised him, nor did he look like a reporter with his hands jammed in his coat pockets. No, this man did not belong here.

  ‘I knew Bruce didn’t write that note,’ someone said.

  ‘Bill, it was a rotten thing you did to Bruce.’

  Margaret volubly retorted with: ‘Oh yes, let’s put this on Bill when Copsy’s the one to blame.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Mariam.

  ‘We’re getting a bit off track here,’ came Richard’s voice.

  Shelley walked towards the stranger, stopping next to him as she asked: ‘Excuse me, who are you?’

  He turned away from the unfolding drama. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, narrowing her eyes as everyone talked over one another.

  He paused. Then he took out a wallet from his inside pocket and handed her a card.

  ‘Just look at you all,’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Shuffling around, dying over that old stone building because of some pie-in-the-sky-god but not giving a shit about actual people.’

  Shelley read the card: Turnpike Constructions. She looked at him, confused.

  ‘We heard about the protest and I was asked to monitor the situation.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

  He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll all be informed in due course.’

  ‘Listen,’ someone exclaimed. ‘I don’t even believe in God but this church should be used for whoever needs it.’

  ‘Traitor,’ came another voice.

  ‘You will inform me now,’ said Shelley.

  ‘Who is he then?’ Guppy had sidled up next to Shelley, who handed him the card. ‘Construction? What are you constructing?’